


serendipity, what a wonderful thing

by I_Am_Not_A_Robot



Series: it's Cryptic Aesthetic (TM) time [5]
Category: Lemon Demon (Musician)
Genre: Dinosaurchestra, Drabble Collection, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Spirit Phone, Time Travel, View-Monster, archaeopteryx
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2020-10-27 04:04:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20754056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Am_Not_A_Robot/pseuds/I_Am_Not_A_Robot
Summary: Poetic-ish drabbles for some songs by Lemon Demon.





	1. skipping through time

Maybe at first I was jealous, and mad, and I wasn’t thinking clearly.

But the clarity of air back then? That pure oxygen? It does wonders to clear the head and shut those angry little voices right up. 

And yet, my breath was still stolen away by the things I saw. It was hard to believe how _ big _ everything used to be until it was all right there, and I was wading in history’s shadows. There were trees so tall I hurt my neck looking up, feeling as if I walked among a forest of gods, timeless and eternal. And the blueness of the sky, how magical it was. 

And that’s when I found you. 

You, who I had grown jealous over. You with wings, wings I could never have.

You and your friends passed overhead, and though at first I imagined you to be dirt speckling the blue gemstone expanse above, I realized that I was terribly wrong. You seemed so alive, and you _ were _ , you were so much more than dirt and old bones in museums and dust on our glittering history. _ History we share. _ It belongs to all of us. We all belong to each other, we owe ourselves to those who came before. 

Archaeopteryx, you are responsible for the birds of paradise and the hummingbirds and the peacocks and everything beautiful. In my jealousy, it was hard to remember that you brought about the dove too.

You regarded me with a look of confusion. Nothing like me existed at that point in time, right?

And I was frozen still, shocked by the intelligence in your eyes, and the light in your feathers, and the serendipity in your existence right here at that exact moment so long ago. 

“I came here to kill you,” I whispered. In the distance came a sound I could not have made up with my own imagination, a shrill call that belonged to the warm seas and islands around us. Perhaps it was the formidable spirit of nature and the sky and the future it held, singing its warning. I listened to the voice; I couldn't help but listen to the sounds of a time when I wasn't meant to be. 

“...But I don’t think I'm allowed to.” That was a truth. 

You, first bird, miracle of the air, didn’t understand - or maybe you did? - and you took off, singing your own song to those you traveled with. 

When I could no longer see you, I rested against a tree, felt the energy of the 45,850,000,000 years behind me, and thought about going home.


	2. uncharted

My dreams are filled with the uncharted.

And above that, or maybe below it, is the need to _build_ something.

The visions always come at night, while I sleep, soundlessly. They're... strange. They're astonishing dreams, unlike anything I've known, but lately... lately I've been feeling awake when I'm asleep, and so sleepy with the sunrise. 

I'm most cognizant when I'm asleep. 

I'm most aware when I see the vision, the towering figure on the skyline, a great crag of black against a starry sky, something grand and big, something that begs to be constructed here... pulled through the sieve that separates reality and unreality, pulled through my mind and through the dirt... how can something that does not exist catch my attention for so long? And why doesn't it exist? Why do _I,_ if not to bring my dreams to life? 

So it is at night that I sketch, and stare out my window, up at the vastness of the night sky and the wonders that hide in the cracks on the concrete, or the between layers of bark, or under a person's eyelids as the rest of my small world, my city, sleeps and slips off. Can a person bring beauty from their unconscious and lay it down on smooth paper? Can a person then build, bright and beautiful glass interlocking, silver and platinum beams, to hold the sky up, if Atlas should grow tired?

(The man ought to take a break.)

I have the means do to what it takes to soothe that structure here, to guide its arrival, to shape it. I'll do what it takes to bring the great sky-needle here, something strong enough to sing to the moon, to take her alluring hand and lead Earth through its cosmic dance among the stars in our galaxy.

The longer I gaze at the moon, my eyes blurry and tired, my pencil held tightly, the paper barely lit by her rays... the clearer the imposing figure grows, just at the edge of my consciousness. My pencil draws the math, those twirling numbers and abstract ideas given words to speak to us humans through. Something much bigger than us, something beautiful, something to express only through existence itself. 

And then with the arrival of the sun, the reverie is broken, and I stare at the paper in my hands, wondering exactly what these shapes and numbers mean. They were so clear last night, but now my mind isn't, and seeing through a foggy lens never led to any insights. What is this rectangle here? What are these strange symbols? Why is the arch calling my name?

What does this object want from me? 

Some answers may never be known, but... I have a feeling this one's leading me somewhere. It took my hand in the night... these nights I haven't slept at all... and the message it wants me to construct is just around the corner. I have the money, I'm not poor at all. I may not be an engineer nor an architect, but I think this project is something worth endorsing.

I've been dreaming of designs, of geometry and balance, of gravity and concrete, of architectural miracles... of engineering feats yet to come. Corners whose angles are yet unknown, measurements unmeasured, elements yet undiscovered, metals and alloys still yet to be developed, of words that have no meaning on Earth, of organized inspiration and the logic of whoever designed the universe.

Of that which is still, for me, uncharted.


End file.
